


the beast and dragon adored

by theteapirate



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Bullying, Closeted Character, Homophobia, M/M, Wall Sex, haha i wrote this so long ago i don't even know what else to tag, liebgott's a little punk, norman dike is an asshole (someone had to be!), so is webster tbh, speirs is a filthy hipster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:32:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theteapirate/pseuds/theteapirate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rockband!AU in which Webster and Liebgott are in opposing bands scheduled to play a gig together; unfortunate sexual histories and old high school rivalries re-surface.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the beast and dragon adored

This is the story Webster tells: _When I was 9 years old my uncle put a Queen record in my hands and that was it. I knew I had to make music_.

(“You do you know Freddy Mercury was gayer than a unicorn, right?” Nixon interrupts. “You might want to say a different band. Just since--y’know. You’re doing that whole “straight” thing. Also 9 years old? Isn’t that a little young?”)

This is the story Webster tells: _When I was 11 years old my uncle put a Pixies record in my hands and that was it. I knew I had to make music_.

(“Why don’t you just say The Smiths? Everybody knows they’re your idols. Or The Cure!” Skinny suggests.)

This is the story Webster tells: _When I was 25 years old I was still in the same band with the same assholes from high school. We’re called The Last Patrol_ \-- thank Speirs’s brief WWII phase for that -- _and this is it. This is all we’ve got_. 

\--

Liebgott remembers high school in jagged pieces, frayed edges that he can cling to when they begin to slip through his fingers, forgotten. A party, blurred (as much as he tries to pretend otherwise, he is a terrible lightweight.) His hot art teacher, the Mustang that Skip got for his birthday (trashed within months), his first straight-A report card (all downhill from there), how hard his mom cried at graduation, the bully who always called him a faggot (Norman Dike, the fucking asshole), the school talent show (his band came in last), and David Kenyon Webster.

Webster was -- well, he was everything Liebgott should have hated. Pretentious and patronizing and naive and spoiled and he was a dick, an absolute dick, and he had a stupid pretty-boy face that Liebgott wanted to punch every time they had the misfortune of meeting eyes in the hallway. Liebgott couldn’t even remember how their rivalry began -- maybe it was the way Webster always stared at people so unnervingly, or the way he sucked up to all their teachers, or they way his band won the talent show even though _they’re emo and they suck_ or the snarky, stupid editorials he wrote for the school paper, but Liebgott couldn’t stand him.

Which is why they had a one-night stand at George Luz’s grad party at the end of their senior year. Liebgott will deny it, and Webster will pretend he fucked him as a joke, but that doesn’t erase the fact that Babe Heffron picked just the wrong moment to walk into the pool house, or the fact that a security camera caught everything.

(‘And it was fucking _disgusting_ ,’ Luz will say to anyone who will listen. ‘Crazy sons of bitches throwing each other into walls like animals and making unpleasant animal sounds, like awkward grunting and goddamn _whimpering_ , I swear. Those kids are freaks.’)

They went to different colleges, afterwards, but they both stayed in the same town and sometimes ran into each other at bars. They’d stare at each other with words bubbling at their lips but they would always swallow it down, pretending not to notice the bob of an adam’s apple, or the vulnerability of a collarbone, and allow their friends to drag them away laughing.

“Hey, haha, wasn’t that -- _ha ha ha_ \-- didn’t you have sex with him at Luz’s grad party in what -- senior year? Yeah? Dude, he was a _douche_ bag, I can’t believe you--” Malarkey will say, or Guarnere, or Muck, or another one of his asshole friends who refuse to stop reminding him.

Webster winks at him from across a bar, any bar, then pretends like he didn’t mean to. It’s happened before.

\--

Liebgott’s band is the shit, okay, not _shit_ but _the_ shit, no matter what his mom says (‘babe you know I’ll always support you but I can never understand you when you scream like that in the microphone...can’t you sing a little quieter?’) or the local paper (‘save your money, please’) or even some of his friends (‘no asshole, I don’t want to come to your show. I don’t care if I’m supposed to be your friend; I refuse to subject myself to your noise.’)

(Let it be known that George Luz, despite popular opinion, is a terrible person.)

Liebgott sings, Guarnere plays guitar (atrociously, and _that_ Liebgott can agree on), Malarkey plays the drums (which he never actually learned, to no one’s surprise), and Muck plays bass. Malarkey seemed to think it would be a good idea to assign the role of band manager to a certain Frank Perconte, which, no. He fucks around, he doesn’t take it seriously, and most offensively of all--

He schedules their first gig as an opening slot for The Last Patrol.

Let is be known that The Last Patrol is a terrible band, no matter what their friends say (“dude, I hate to say it but they’re actually kind of good”) or the local paper (“atmospheric and simultaneously raw, with a bold, lyrical genius reminiscent of early Dylan) or Liebgott’s mom (“you know who you should try to sound more like? The Last Patrol...Mrs. Luz was playing them in her car on the way to our Book Club last week and they are just wonderful.”)

(Let it be known that terribleness obviously runs in the Luz family genes.)

Speirs sings. No one really knows his first name; someone told Liebgott that it was “Ronald,” but the last person with the balls to say that to his face was found locked in their own car with a pack of fully lit cigarettes. Skinny plays the drums. He’s the only member of the band that Liebgott is on semi-agreeable terms with. Nixon’s on bass. Liebgott is on pretty semi-agreeable terms with Nixon too, but only because he throws excellent parties and drinks like a champ. And none other than David Kenyon Webster is the guitarist, and supposedly the lyricist as well.

They suck and that’s it. Liebgott refuses to open for them, and he refuses to put up with this _bullshit_.

\--

“What is this bullshit?”

“Huh?”

“Skip, I swear to god -- The Last fuckin’ Patrol? Really?”

“What -- I like this song!”

“I should push you out the window.”

“Well, I’m driving so you better not!”

“Fuck!”

The gig isn’t actually for another two weeks. The band keeps practicing -- _for the integrity of the music and the future record deal that we will get_ , Liebgott insists -- and not at all in preparation for the upcoming gig that Liebgott made Perconte turn down.

“I’m callin’ him.”

“Who?”

“Perconte. I’d bet’d you anything that son of a bitch didn’t do nothin’.”

“Lieb...”

“What?”

“C’mon now, it was cute at first but you gotta face it. We’re doing that gig.”

“ _Hell_ no.”

“Are you fuckin’ crazy?” Guarnere jumps in, chewing on a soda top in the backseat. “Of course we’re doin’ it. Those guys actually have fans. We’d have a lotta viewership already at our disposal, c’mon, it’s a perfect opportunity to get some real attention around here.”

“I refuse to be seen with those pricks.”

“Lieb, c’mon, you gotta at least admit we should take advantage of that kinda audience.”

“They wear cardigans. I didn’t even know what a cardigan was, I had to google that shit.”

“So what?”

Liebgott just barrels forward. “And all their lyrics are fuckin’ stolen from Robert Smith!”

“Is that the guy from the Cure?” Skip interrupts.

“Yes. And you know what The Cure is? Fuckin’ rainy day music for closeted homos.”

“Hey, I like the Cure.”

“Shut up, Skip.”

“Liebgott, would you please unknot your panties and admit that this is just because of Webster?” Malarkey says.

Liebgott sinks a little in seat. “...I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, please. That’s just pathetic.”

“I said I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well you’re obviously still into him or you wouldn’t be bitching this hard about playing a show with him.”

“Nope, I’ll say it one more time: I got no idea what the hell you’re talkin’ about.” Liebgott slams the door when they finally pull into Malarkey’s house. “By the way, why are we still practicing in your garage?”

“Don’t change the subject. You want his hot, hairy bod and you’re pissed about it. It’s nothing to cry about.”

“ _I’m not crying!_ ” Liebgott screams.

If he knocks over Malarkey’s cymbals once or twice during practice, it is perfectly accidental.

\--

Webster was new in their sophomore year. He was like a bright, shiny new toy on the shelf and everybody wanted a piece of him. It was ‘ _God he just has the prettiest blue eyes, did you see them?_ ’ and ‘ _Fuck, he smiled at me in the hallway today and I swear I almost started begging him to fuck me, right then and there_ ’ and ‘ _Did you hear? He even writes poetry. Who even knew that there were actual boys who were actually out there like that, actually?_ ’ You couldn’t escape from it, anywhere. The school wasn’t very big to begin with, and David was like this exotic city creature who already had enough scruff to make him look like he was at least 18, and he drove a BMW, and he did things like _paint_ and he played in a band and he didn’t even look like some weak-ass pussy. The only person who ever gave him shit was Norman Dike, and that was only because Webster took his place on the soccer team after he missed too many practices.

If Liebgott hated him, it wasn’t because he was jealous. He wasn’t. It was because David Webster is a prick. No other reason. It was because without any antagonistic provocation from Liebgott, Webster decided to single him out as the victim of all of his dickish impulses, so that Liebgott couldn’t even complain about him because no one would possibly believe that _polite, sweet Webster_ , who is so kind and _so very handsome_ , could ever hide your backpack in the girl’s bathroom, or throw bottlecaps at you during your gigs, or tell everyone you had a thing for the pedophilic gym teacher.

To the girls, he was a god. To the art freaks, he was a genius. To the teachers, he was a godsend. To the principal, he was a saint.

To Liebgott, he was the anti-christ. And an ugly one at that.

\--

“Speirs, this isn’t going to work.”

“I can’t see without my glasses.”

“I know, but. It’s just so cliche. And is it absolutely essential that you wear that scarf?”

“David, I swear to God if you complain about my scarf one more time...”

“You’ll what? Give me a cigarette?”

“Fuck you -- you know what? I’m sick of you bossing us around all the time. I’m the goddamn singer.”

“Aw, Ron, you’re tearing me apart right now,” David says flatly.

“Go fuck yourself, _Web_.” Speirs shoves him in the chest and starts to storm out of the room.

David catches Speirs by the wrist before he can leave and hisses, “Do _not_ call me ‘Web.’ No one fucking calls me that. Do you understand me?” His eyes are deadly serious.

Speirs grins slowly, and David suppresses a shudder. For as long as he’s known Speirs, that smile has always given him the creeps. David lets him go, and Speirs is on the phone before he’s even shut the door.

“That’ll be Lipton,” Skinny says.

“I’m sure it is,” David says quietly, lighting a cigarette. “He always runs to Lipton with every little problem.” Everyone is silent for a moment.

Nixon sighs, exasperated, and blurts out: “Alright, what do you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“Obviously you know something, and it’s upsetting you, so why don’t you just fucking spill instead of taking everything out on Speirs? Which, by the way, seems way more dangerous than helpful.”

“Oh please, Speirs is harmless. He just wants you to think he’s dangerous. The guy wears _cardigans_ for Christ’s sake.”

“He also killed a guy.”

“Rumor.”

“He doesn’t deny it.”

“He doesn’t affirm it either.”

“Anyways,” Skinny interrupts. “What the hell is going on that’s got you so pissed off?”

David bites his lip. “Alright fine...you know that _atrocious_ band, Curra-something? The one that sounds like the sickly, bastardly, unwanted love child of Creed and blink-182?”

“You mean Currahee?” Nixon corrects.

“Sure, whatever.”

“Okay what about them?”

“They’re fucking _opening_ for us at that gig we have next week.”

“And that’s bad because...” Skinny draws out the ‘cause, which David finds infuriating.

“Because they’re disgusting, and their sound is hideous, and they have no class or talent or art and they’re going to kill the mood and everyone is going to leave before we can even play, or worse, _people will associate us with them_.”

“David, I think you’re being a little melodramatic.”

“ _I’m not being melodramatic!_ They suck.”

If David kicks Skinny’s bass drum once or twice during practice, it is perfectly accidental.

\--

David moved to Buttfuck, Nowhere when he was 16 thanks to his father’s job transfer. He never forgave him for it. He can remember driving past tree after tree after fucking tree and cursing every single one of them, blasting The Cure on his artfully-battered mp3-player (iPods are for imbeciles and their sound quality is _unforgivable_ ) and ignoring his parents when they begged him to turn it down.

 _I’m sure I have poetry for this moment_ , David thought, closing his eyes to the trees and his very, very sad reflection in the window.

 _The glamour of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast  
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past_.

David wishes it was raining. It is so much easier to angst when it is raining. “The sun is mocking me,” he says out loud.

“What was that, David?” his mother interrupts his very sad poetry recitation.

“Nothing, mother. You may return to your plebian thriller novel,” he says in the bored monotone that he’s worked so very hard to perfect.

She catches his father’s eye and smiles. Their David always had such a magnificent capacity for melodrama. A neighbor of theirs once suggested that he might be _homosexual_ , but you must forgive them -- they had been drinking. Their David could never be a homosexual. He was just very creative. Quite the little artist, really. And a beautiful writer. But never homosexual. The Websters were a very old family. They didn’t even have a gay gene! Impossible. Simply impossible.

She glances back at him one more time. He was reading poetry now. Arthur Rimbaud, it looked like.

‘Such a sensitive boy, my David,’ she thinks. ‘He’ll make a girl very happy one day.’

\--

Ever since he can remember, Joe Liebgott has been the only one to make Webster lose his words.

It’s the first face he finds at his new school, and the first face that leaves David, much to his chagrin, a little breathless. It is only in passing -- the boy walks by him right as he enters the front doors, and looks him up and down, quite obviously. He has a pretty, snarling face, like a young wolf that is too sweet for its fangs. David tries not to flinch, recording every detail of the boy’s face to return to later.

 _That’s Joe Liebgott_ , someone tells him (Speirs, maybe). His third day at his new school, the day Webster learned the boy’s name, Joe Liebgott was wearing an Alice Cooper t-shirt (an abomination) and laughing far too loudly and with too much abandon, head thrown back while some other boy with a backwards hat and baggy pants clapped him on the back.

“Hey, new kid.” It’s the thing Liebgott says when they first meet eyes, and it reminds Webster of everything he hates. The fact that he’s somewhere unfamiliar, the fact that he has to start over, the fact that a boy makes him uncomfortable and he’s pretty and his hair looks too soft and his smile too contagious and his mouth too red and there’s nothing Webster can do about it.

It seems Liebgott’s everywhere. In his homeroom at the back of the class, doodling cartoons on his desk. In his History class with his feet propped up on the desk in front of him, flicking little pieces of paper at everyone in his general vicinity (including Webster, much to his chagrin). In the cafeteria crushing soda cans to his head and causing a ruckus with his classless, unsophisticated friends.

Webster quickly befriends Ronald Speirs (he was reading David Foster Wallace and wearing a Smiths shirt and generally looked like someone Webster could get along with). Speirs persuades him to join the newspaper, where he meets Skinny and Nixon, who encourage him to try out for their soccer team and start fall conditioning. He settles into life here more quickly than he expected, with these friends who are almost as pretentious as he is, but still loyal and generous (and terrifying, sometimes, at least on Speirs’s part.) The girls here are pretty if simple, and he starts a thing with a gorgeous red-head in his Drawing & Painting class.

He immerses himself so deeply in this new world that Liebgott barely ever crosses his mind. Their circles of friends are very different, and Speirs’s hipster-obligated scorn of Liebgott and his friends gives Web permission to quietly loathe him from afar as well, if only for his tasteless clothing choices or his terrible taste in music (if it can be called that) or his crass, stupid language.

He ignores Liebgott, this lower species. Not publicly, of course, because he hasn’t technically been given a reason to hate him yet, but he chews on this private enmity until the moment comes.

\--

Joe has known he was gay since Malarkey drunkenly kissed him at his 16th birthday party. It was a huge blowout -- sure, Malarkey had a lot of friends, but most of the school was in attendance and even that new boy, the one with the stupid, girly eyelashes and stupid rich-boy clothes and the completely fake glasses he sometimes wore. _David Webster._ The kid had missed half of high school, and yet, already, he was dating one of the prettiest girls in school and all of his teachers were enamored with him. He’d earned a spot on the soccer team ( _sport for pussies_ , Liebgott assures anyone who will listen to him) and became co-editor in chief of their newspaper. In only a couple of months.

To Liebgott, who’d been in this town, with these people, for his whole life, it seemed mighty unfair. Who was this guy to come in here like he owned the place? To show up at parties and kiss these girls and laugh with _his_ friends and drink _his_ liquor?

“Hey, _Web_ ,” Liebgott approaches him, stumbling a little. He was only tipsy, he swears.

“Hi...uh. Joe, right?”

“That’s right. Joe Liebgott.” His smile is dark and clear, dead-sober.

“Nice to meet you,” Webster smiles. “Want a beer?”

This infuriated Liebgott. This was _his_ friend’s house, _his_ party that he helped put together and here’s this asshole, offering him the beer that _Liebgott_ bought? Who the fuck--

“I can get it myself, thanks.”

“No, let me,” Webster smiles, reaching down into the icy cooler and pulling out a bottle. He even opens it for him. But when he hands the beer to Liebgott, it slides through his fingers and splashes all over Liebgott’s shirt, even spilling onto the front of his pants.

The crowd in the kitchen falls almost completely silent as the bottle skitters across the floor.

“You fucker--” Liebgott snarls, shoving Webster back into the kitchen cabinets.

“Look, man, it was just an accident,” Webster says innocently.

“The fuck it was!” Liebgott punches him in the face -- extremely sloppily -- so soppily that his fist barely glances off his cheek.

Webster wants to shrug it off, he swears he does, but he can’t help but want to strangle this little shit with his stupid mean-pretty face and his stupid red, slippery mouth and his stupid Metallica t-shirt that hangs off his stupid, bony, freckled shoulder.

Instead he punches him back, but Webster has the advantage of sobriety, and the punch actually lands, and hard, knocking Liebgott to the ground. He sprawls out, dazed and clutching at his cheek with his _long, stupid, not-pretty hands_ , and Webster steps back, as if daring someone to help him up.

“...the fuck?” It is at this moment that Malarkey enters the room, eyes landing immediately on Liebgott.

“Did you do this?” He demands, staring down Webster.

“Only in defense,” Webster says in a near-flawless monotone, if only his voice didn’t break at the end.

“The fuck it was -- you spilled your goddamn drink on me, asshole!” Liebgott shouts through a split lip.

“Which was an _accident_ \-- god, how many times do I have to repeat myself?”

“You fucker!” Liebgott scrambles up from the floor, but Malarkey pulls him back.

“It’s not worth it, Liebgott, not on my goddamn birthday -- were you even invited, by the way?” He directs this to Webster.

Webster swallows and tries to ignore all the eyes on him. “I didn’t realize it was invitation-only.”

“It’s not. However, I do have a strict no-assholes policy, so I guess you’re out. The door’s right over there,” Malarkey gestures to the screen door behind the kitchen table. “C’mon, Lieb.”

David freezes where he’s standing until Speirs grabs his arm. “Let’s just go, David, this party is crawling with idiots anyways.” David concedes and allows Speirs to drag him out the door.

Liebgott, meanwhile, drunkenly pleads, “Oh c’mon, Malark, I could’ve fought him, really, just lemme go and I’ll--”

“Uh uh, not you, buddy...you’ve had one too many drinks tonight.”

“No such thing as too many drinks...” Liebgott mumbles as Malarkey drags him into his bedroom and lays him down.

“Hold on while I get you an ice-pack.”

“I don’t need no fuckin’ pussy ice-pack, _c’mon_ , ow, fuck--” Liebgott shouts after Malarkey, accidentally hitting his head on the headrest. “Shit...”

Malarkey returns a few minutes later and commands Liebgott to lie down. He pushes back his hair and presses the pack to his cheek.

“Now tell me the truth: was it really an accident?”

“What, him spilling the drink on me? Fuck no.”

“Well how do you know?”

Liebgott sits up a little higher, holding Malarkey’s gaze. “There was somethin’ in his eyes, I don’t know...it could’ve just slipped but in his eyes I could see, just like this -- this hatred.”

Malarkey raises his eyebrows.

“Fuck you -- it might sound stupid but I swear, it’s what I saw, alright? Jesus.”

“Fine, I believe you.”

“You do? Really? Because--”

Malarkey shuts him up with his mouth. It isn’t romantic or soft, and maybe it isn’t supposed to be, but it works. Liebgott stares at him, mouth gaping.

“You taste like blood.”

“Really, motherfucker? ‘Cause I just got my fuckin’ lights punched out--”

“Shut up, Lieb, or I’ll do it again.”

Liebgott bites his lip, then curses, remembering the cut. “Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad...” he says, uncharacteristically quiet.

“Huh?”

“Oh don’t make me fuckin’ repeat myself.”

“Are you saying...” Malarkey searches for his words. “Joe, are you gay?”

Joe is silent for a moment, avoiding his eyes. “Could be.”

“It’s okay if you are...I’m not an asshole like that, okay, I get it, it’s totally cool.”

“You sure?”

“Of course! You’re my buddy, you’re _Joe Liebgott_ , the kid I’ve known half my life. You think this one little thing’s gonna change that?”

“No, I just...well what about Gonorrhea and Skip? You think they’ll...?”

“They’ll be fine.” Malarkey smiles. “You know this means we have to go trash a gay bar now right?”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m serious! Tomorrow night. I’m finding you some dick.”

\--

The next night finds Liebgott pinned against a brick wall with a wet mouth on his neck, stubbled jaw scraping at his cheek, a thumb sweeping over the sharp knob of his wrist bone. A hand sneaks into his pants, teeth find a temporary home in the hollows of his collarbone, and there are fingers, fucking, everywhere--

The man’s hair is dark and thick and Liebgott submerges his hands in it like his fingers might sink. His eyes are blue and sharp with long, long eyelashes like a girl, and his mouth is like a girl too, but the voice that comes out of it is a _man’s_ , like the stubble on his cheek, and the muscle that jumps in his jaw when Liebgott bares his throat to him, long tendons stretching, veins shivering under the skin, almost-bitten--

He tries to tell Liebgott his name but he doesn’t want to know, he just wants to get fucked, and _hard_ , and it’s not his first time, his first time was with a girl from his temple, behind the synagogue because that’s what cliched Jewish boys do, but this, _this is actually important_ , he knew when he was fucking that girl, deep down, that it wasn’t going to be real to him, that he was waiting for the real deal, which happened to be _now, right now, just fucking put it in_ , oh _fuck_ \--

Needless to say, Liebgott found some dick.

\--

“Here, let me talk to Lip, please.”

Speirs reluctantly hands Webster the phone, with a warning look in his eye. Lipton had been their band manager ever since they’d graduated high school. He and Speirs had dated tentatively their senior year and had discussed with some degree of uncertainty of joining the military together after high school. Instead, Speirs had become increasingly serious about sticking with the band, and Lipton, ever the diplomat and fiercely loyal to his boyfriend, offered to be their band manager. He had other jobs too, of course -- the band was pretty successful, but not enough for Lipton to be able to live off that income alone -- but he was extremely dedicated to the band and of course to Speirs, and he had proved to be an incomparable ally.

“Hello, Lipton?”

There is a crackling sound on the other end. “Hey, Webster, how’re you doing?”

“I’ve been better,” Webster sighs. “Listen, Lipton...that band, Currahee? The one that’s opening for us next weekend? I really don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“David, I’m sorry, but--”

“Lipton, they’re terrible. The band members are completely asinine and they dress like white trash, their music is -- it’s not even music for Christ’s sake -- and I really believe it would be detrimental to our band’s reputation to even be read in the same sentence with them let alone PLAY A GODDAMN GIG--”

“I know, David, I know, and I’m really sorry but there just isn’t anything I can do about it.”

“What do you mean you can’t do anything -- just cancel their fucking act!”

Speirs shoots him a warning look, the one where the vein in his forehead becomes abnormally enthusiastic, throbbing out of his skin. Webster thinks he looks like he might have an aneurysm.

“David, it’s too late,” Lipton stresses quietly. “The venue has already set up the event and released the dates. They’d have to change all the posters and the information they’ve released to ticket vendors. I’m sorry but you’re just going to have to put up with them. Your fans will understand, okay?”

“You’re an imbecile.”

“David, please--”

“Give that to me,” Speirs hisses, snatching the phone out of Webster’s hand and smacking the back of his head in one motion.

“Ow, what was that for--!”

Speirs ignores him. “Carwood, honey, just ignore him, you did great...” Speirs assures him, shooting one last withering look to Webster before slamming the door behind him.

“They make me sick,” Webster says flatly, collapsing onto a couch in their recording studio. “I feel nauseous. We’re going to lose everything we’ve worked for -- our tasteful pastiche, our highbrow reputation, our adoring fanbase, everything, it’s all falling to ruins--”

“Would you shut the fuck up?” Nixon’s hands squeeze at his own temples, as if he has a migraine. “God, you really are as melodramatic as everyone says.”

“Fuck you,” Webster snarls, kicking over a chair and storming out of the room, in very much the same fashion as Speirs.

“Well,” Skinny says dully. “There goes our recording session.”

\--

Webster storms into the nearest bar and slams down his credit card. “Whiskey, neat.”

The bartender raises his eyebrows but obliges. It’s three in the afternoon, so the bar is almost completely empty. It’s Webster’s favorite time to drink -- the only other people who come in at this time are other sad asshole like him who want nothing more than to be alone. No one bothers any one, and Webster gets to drink in peace.

“Well, look who it is.”

Webster buries his face in the counter. Not this fucker. Webster would even take Liebgott over him. “Fuck off.”

“Thought I’d scared you away from this town for you good,” he says in a voice he probably thinks is intimidating.

Webster sits up, eyes steely. “You couldn’t scare away a bedwetting nine-year old girl if you were wielding a knife and wearing a goddamn hockey mask. Now I’m not going to say it again: Fuck. Off.”

“You still a fucking faggot?”

Webster slams the back of the man’s head into the counter before he gets the chance to blink. Norman Dike still had the eyes of a coward, even when playing the aggressor. Webster didn’t appreciate it when he was 16 and he certainly appreciates it even less at 25.

“You’re obviously still an ugly, cowardly, fascist ignoramus. I guess some people really never change.”

“Fuck you!”

Webster moves his hand from Dike’s chest to his throat.

“You still fucking that little Jew?” Dike chokes, spit sputtering over the vowels.

Webster flinches and lets him go. Dike falls wheezing to the ground, clutching at his neck. “Sensitive subject?” He rasps.

“Fuck you,” Webster breathes. He glances around; the bar is mostly empty, but there are a few people drinking quietly on the fringes. Webster crouches down next to Dike and fists the front of his shirt. “Tell me what the fuck you’re doing here.”

“Well, I _was_ just having a drink, but then you walked in and I thought the time was ripe for a little catching up with my good old friend Web.”

“Bullshit. And no one -- you hear me? _No one._ Calls me _Web_.”

Dike swallows a little. Webster’s eyes are cold blue and deadly serious.

“Now you listen to me,” he says dangerously, grabbing Dike by the chin so he can’t look away. “I don’t know what you think happened or what used to be, but it didn’t, understand?”

“So you’re still clinging to your so-called heterosexuality, huh?”

“I’m clinging to nothing, because it’s none of your goddamn business.” Their faces are so close that Webster can hear every short, gasping breath Dike utters.

“Oh, please, I knew you were a faggot from the very first moment you walked into that school.”

Webster swallows, glancing around. “Then why didn’t you ever say anything?” He asks, careful to keep his voice flat.

“No need, then. Wouldn’t of hurt enough. But now you’re all successful, aren’t you? Bet it would hurt a lot if this came out.”

“I still haven’t even confirmed anything.”

“I don’t need your goddamn confirmation, _Web_. A story’s a goddamn story, and lucky for tabloid pieces, all they need is a rumor. But I happen to know it’s not a rumor. You’re still fucking that bratty little Jew and you can deny it all you want, like you always have, but I know the truth.”

“You’re drunk, and you’re an ignorant piece of shit, and I’d like you to get out of my face now--”

“I was at that party, you dumb fuck!” Dike shouts, loud enough for a patron from across the room to look over with a raised eyebrow. “I was at that party,” he repeats quietly. “Everyone knows what you did. And now I hear you guys are playing a show together? And that’s not a coincidence?”

Webster draws in a breath, looking away.

“Please. You’re not convincing anyone.”

“You still don’t have to do it. You literally get nothing out of going to the press -- nothing. Is this about high school? Some sort of petty revenge? Because the only reason I got your spot on the soccer team was that you never showed up for practice. You pissed because you’re still working at fucking _Olive Garden_ for a living and I’ve actually found some modicum of success? Because this isn’t going to make you any more successful--”

“Fuck you!” Dike hisses. “You took fucking everything from me and now I’m going to take something from you.”

“It was high school--”

“Yeah, and so what if was--?” Dike says, spit shiny at his lips, looking sadder than any drunk Webster’s ever seen.

Webster gives him one last shove. “This is embarrassing. You’re embarrassing yourself. It was high school -- no one wants what they wanted in high school beyond high school -- well, I mean, there’s -- okay, never mind. Just -- god, just get the fuck up off the floor and go home. You’re so pathetic that fighting you just seems downright cruel,” Webster says flatly, releasing Dike’s shirt and standing up.

“This isn’t over,” Dike threatens, stumbling as he climbs to his feet with one last look at Webster that he probably thinks is fear-inspiring.

“Sure it isn’t,” Webster intones, sliding back into his seat. He looks down at his hands. They’re trembling. “Another whiskey, please?”

\--

Webster’s known he was gay since was 18 and drunk at George Luz’s senior year graduation party and Joe Liebgott came onto him. Well, that’s a lie. Webster’s known he was gay since he was eight years old and his best friend’s sister dragged them to a Backstreet Boys concert.

But -- it wasn’t necessarily that he knew he was gay, then. It was more of a fear. It was a cold, dark thought that he kept locked in a cage, a hated, captive worry that threatened to rattle the perfect fragility of his carefully-built life. Webster liked art, but that was allowed. He listened to Morrissey, _and it was a phase_. He never had sleepovers as a kid, because that was too homo.

And then Liebgott came along and fucked it up. He let it out. The tongue in his throat become more than a tongue in his throat. The dick in his hand wasn’t just a dick in his hand.

It was confirmation. Hard, slick, terrifying confirmation.

The trouble was that Webster abhorred every form of hypocrisy. He said he valued honesty, and honor, and maintaining the integrity of your convictions. But he’d never been challenged before, he’d never met a true conflict. Defending someone helpless from a bully, or refraining from cheating on a test he forgot to study for, or standing up to his parents about his music all felt different from this particular species of identity crisis. What would this mean about his mannerisms, his personality, his acceptance by strangers? Could he get married, could he have children, would he be turned down from future jobs? And most importantly -- wouldn’t it make it just that much harder to find someone? How do you even meet men? How do the power dynamics work, the dialogue, the conflict resolution--

 _You still fucking that little Jew?_ Webster can’t shake it out of him, this parasitic voice that won’t let him forget about the only question (or rather, the only answer) that -- if he’s being honest with himself -- really, truly matters.

\--

“David...look, it’s not the big a deal, okay? Aren’t you basically out anyways?”

“No...not -- not really.”

“Look, man, I hate to break it to you but everyone knows. I’ve seen you wear a beret.”

“That was one time, will you please stop bringing it up?”

“Okay, okay, but really. Is it really that big a thing if Norman Dike of all people outs you? Besides, he might not even do it. He could’ve easily just been talking shit. It sounds like he was drunk out of his mind.”

“He wasn’t that drunk.”

“Okay then, it’s still just a threat. Nothing’s happened yet. Stop worrying--”

“Nixon--!” David explodes, then runs a hand over his face, rubbing at his temples. He mumbles something indecipherable into his hands.

“What? Stop mumbling.”

David shoots him a deadly glare, but moves his hands. “I said,” he lowers his voice, then swallows. “My parents don’t know.”

Nixon’s eyes widen. “Oh, that’s what you’re worried about? Dude, I’ve been with Dick since I was practically -- Jesus Christ, it’s been like 12 years! And I’m twenty-six! And my parents still just think he’s my best friend.”

“Yeah, but your parents are different.”

“No they’re not, are you kidding me? It’s the same deal! Old money, old name -- I mean they made me do the Yale thing, just like every other Nixon. Just about had a heart attack when I said I was going in the music business. Which, by the way, they still think I’m a producer or some shit, not a goddamn bassist on an indie label...”

“Nixon...” David says softly, “I really don’t think you get it. They _can’t know_.”

Nixon sighs, running a hand over his face. He studies Webster for a moment. Webster may be an angsty, melodramatic son of a bitch sometimes but that’s what musicians do. Nixon’s never seen Webster look _scared_. Bitchy, maybe. Indignant, all the time. Pissy, perpetually. But never scared.

“What’ll they do?” He asks quietly.

“Disown me.” Webster’s mouth does a funny thing. “At the very least.”

“No...”

Webster bites down on his lip, almost violently, avoiding his eyes. “No one knows them like I do,” he whispers.

“I...David, I’m so sorry. I never knew.”

“Course you didn’t. How could you? I could never admit something like that.”

“Are they...are they, y’know, violent?”

“No,” David says. “Just...delusional. Mom lives in some safer fantasy world and Dad only cares about his reputation. The _Websters_ couldn’t possibly have a gay son. It’s already humiliating enough that I dropped out of Harvard for my goddamn music.”

“Yeah, brother, I’m with you there,” Nixon laughs. Webster can’t help but smile with him.

This is why Nixon’s friendship is so special to Webster. He understands about these sorts of things. Speirs -- for all the black he wears and the severe looks and intensity of his constitution -- actually has a surprisingly excellent relationship with his parents. Same with Skinny. But Nixon understands the dramatic parties and the family traditions, the choking high-collars and the impossible expectations. Speirs would scoff at him and tell him he’s being a wuss. Skinny would just blindly comfort him. But Nixon laughs, because once you strip away the nannies and the tutors and the expensive shoes and the stern, secretive mouths, all that’s left is _ridiculous_ , and ridiculous things are meant to be laughed at.

\--

“Joe, put on your fuckin’ shoes.”

Liebgott directs his meanest glare at Guarnere. “I told you I wasn’t going to no fuckin’ Last Patrol gig.”

“Yes, you are. Now put on your fuckin’ shoes before I throw you over my goddamn shoulder.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Muck claps his hands in delight, as if he’s at a movie theatre. “Do it Gonorrhea, he’s asking for it!”

“Shut the fuck up, Skip,” Liebgott growls. “And fine, I’ll go. But only ‘cause...”

“...you have a big ole’ boner for the guitarist,” Malarkey finishes innocently.

“No! For you guys. Because I just love you so very much,” he says in a tone that makes it very clear that he wishes them nothing more than a most painful death.

“D’awww, that’s my boy!” Guarnere ruffles Liebgott’s deliberately-messy coif.

Liebgott smacks his hand away.

“Aw, Bill, look what you’ve done! Now he’s gotta go mess it up again so just that one perfect strand is oh-so-delicately out of place,” Malarkey coos.

“Shoulda named this fuckin’ group ‘Band of Bastards’...” Liebgott murmurs under his breath, stomping over to the bathroom to, yes, fix his hair.

“Making yourself all pretty for your boyfriend?” Malarkey says, sliding behind Liebgott to rest his head on his shoulder.

“This bathroom is too tiny for your big ass, Malarkey.”

“I’ll take that a yes to the prettification?”

Liebgott gives Malarkey the same glare-treatment as Bill. “Would you fuckin’ give it a rest, already?”

“Sensitive subject?”

“No. Dead subject.”

“Just because it was like, 7 years ago doesn’t mean there aren’t still feelings,” Malarkey says significantly.

“Yes, actually, it does.” Liebgott shakes his head one last time, so the one, perfect strand falls deliberately out of place, and shrugs Malarkey off his shoulder.

“I’m ready,” he says to Muck, who skips far too happily over to the car, dragging a tight-lipped Liebgott behind him.

“That one’s got it bad,” Malarkey says to Bill, nodding to Liebgott, who is glowering with all his might in the backseat.

When they finally arrive at Toccoa Bar -- The Last Patrol’s favorite spot for impromptu gigs -- the bar is already cloudy with smoke and crowded with fans and drunks alike. The boys push there way through to the bar and sweet talk a couple of girls into getting them a seat.

“Four beers,” Liebgott shouts to the bartender, just as the microphone creaks behind them. He stares determinedly at the counter, knuckles whitening as a familiar voice overpowers the chatter of the bar.

“Hey, everybody, hope you’re all having a good time tonight.”

Liebgott scoffs.

“For those of you who don’t know us, we’re the Last Patrol. We’ve played this bar quite a few times now, so we see a lot of familiar faces, and we’re hoping to see some new ones as well.”

Liebgott turns around, and immediately, without any conscious effort on his part, he lands on a pair of sharp blue eyes, the brightest thing in the room -- just as penetrating and infuriating as he remembers them. They stare right into his, and Liebgott finds it damn near impossible to look away.

Webster turns away first. He is less scruffy than Liebgott remembers -- younger-looking, surprisingly. Maybe it is all summer’s doing -- his hair is wilder and darker, his skin brown and clean-shaven, fresh-looking, and he looks leaner, _hungrier_ than Liebgott remembers. He turns to whisper something in the singer’s ear -- Speirs -- who nods briefly, and mouths something to the other band members.

Webster returns to his mic. “We’re going to start off with a cover, if that’s alright. This is ‘The Boy With the Thorn in His Side’ by The Smiths.” He ducks his head, positioning his hands in the proper place on his guitar, and Speirs steps up to sing.

Liebgott turns back to the counter as the song begins, Speirs’ somewhat unexpected voice filling the room. He spies Muck dancing enthusiastically and slaps the back of his head.

“What?”

“This isn’t even a dancing song!”

“It’s my party and I’ll dance if I want to!”

“Jesus fuck, that’s not even how the song goes!” Liebgott shakes his head and returns to his drink.

“Aw, c’mon, Lieb, live a little.” Guarnere bumps his shoulder.

“Don’t wanna.”

“Stop pouting.”

“I’ll pout if I fuckin’ want to!”

Bill rolls his eyes and turns to Malarkey. “You take him. I can’t handle the bitching.”

Malarkey throws an arm over Liebgott’s shoulder. “C’mon, buddy, lighten up. They’re good. Listen.”

“ _The boy with the thorn in his side...behind the hatred there lies a plundering desire for love_ ,” Speirs sings, eyes closed dramatically.

“Oh, you’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me.”

Webster is staring right at him, and Liebgott freezes. He hadn’t been sure if the look was deliberate before, but this definitely is. He raises his eyebrows meaningfully and Liebgott cocks his head, not understanding. Webster jerks his head to the side of the stage and mouths something that could be ‘after.’

'After the show?’ Liebgott mouths back.

Webster nods, then seems to remember himself, returning to looking mournfully down at his guitar.

“Was that some secret lover’s language or something? Can you communicate telepathically?”

“Can you speak with your mouth instead of out of your ass?”

“Nope. Biological deficiency from birth.”

“Remind me why I’m friends with you again?”

“Because I’m adorable, and you would never get laid without me.”

Liebgott shakes his head and turns back to the bartender. “Another beer, please?”

He can’t help but overhear the conversation next to him while he waits. There are two girls -- both mildly attractive, but not very intelligent, at least as far as Liebgott is concerned.

“Yeah, the singer’s pretty hot, but personally I prefer the guitarist.”

Liebgott raises an eyebrow.

“He’s got that dark, brooding thing working for him. I just wish he’d rip his shirt off already. God, I love v-necks,” she says, eyeing Webster like a piece of meat. Liebgott clears his throat.

“Excuse me, ladies, not to intrude, but that guy? The guitarist? Total dick. 100% pure dick. It may look like he’s got a face and you know, other parts besides dick but I promise you he’s all dick. Nothin’ else to him. Except for his pussy. Yeah, he’s definitely got a pussy. Also his chest is ridiculously hairy -- is that what you like? You like that? Not judgin’ you or anything, but, that’s kinda gross, babe.”

The girl glares at him. “Are you the protective boyfriend or something?”

Liebgott’s mouth drops open, indignant. Over his shoulder, Malarkey nods at them enthusiastically.

“What? No! I’m just trying to tell you what you’re gettin’ into!”

“No offense, _babe_ , but I think I can handle one moody musician with potential emotional problems. Not exactly rocket science.”

“I’m tellin’ you, he’s a fuckin’ prick!” Liebgott shouts after them as they start to walk away.

She gives him the finger. Her friend turns back and winks at him over her shoulder.

“Why do women still hit on you, Lieb? Like, to me, it’s so obvious that you’re a flaming homo.”

“Shut the fuck up, Skip,” Liebgott sighs in frustration.

The crowd erupts into applause as they finish the song. Webster smiles and Liebgott’s stomach does a funny, fluttery thing that he pointedly ignores.

“Thank you,” Webster says, winking at Speirs. “Now this next song is an old one...we actually played this at our very first show here, seven years ago. Believe it or not, playing a gig here was the prize for the winner of our high school’s talent show, so this bar still brings back a lot of those old memories.”

Malarkey elbows Liebgott in the side. He looks up, and once again, Webster is looking right at him. Throughout the entire of the set, Webster’s eyes remained determinedly locked on his.

“The intensity of this eyefucking is...staggering, to say the least. I mean, is it hot in here or is just me?”

“Shut up, Skip.”

Webster’s taken off his shirt at this point -- his chest is just as hairy as Liebgott remembers it. He’s still solid-looking, with just the right amount of muscle mass. He swallows. Liebgott likes men that look like _men_. He’s sleeker though, too -- though maybe it’s just the darker skin.

“And now we’re going to play something a little slower, is that alright?”

Liebgott nods subconsciously; the way Webster is staring at him, it feels like the question is directed at him.

He plays the guitar acoustically and Speirs switches to the keyboard. There aren’t any lyrics -- the melody is low and dark, haunting, even. It doesn’t fit in this bar, in this environment, with the throngs of people who suddenly feel like intruders. Liebgott’s skin feels too tight on him, too hot, but he has goosebumps that appear as if out of nowhere. He wants to leave, or to look away, or to make a joke or to turn to Malarkey and laugh, but his throat constricts and it’s like the floor has grown roots, locking him in place.

They play one more song after that -- something fast and familiar and popular that Liebgott barely hears. The minute it ends he’s at the side of the stage, hissing at Webster.

“One second,” Webster says, without looking at him. He packs away his guitar in his case and packs up his pedal and amp. When he finally returns to Liebgott, it’s with a cigarette hanging loosely out of his mouth, and his hair clinging to his forehead with sweat. He is still shirtless. Liebgott takes a deep breath.

“Sorry about the wait,” Webster says, eyes studying Liebgott curiously, raking up and down. Liebgott’s posture becomes self-consciously more cocky -- he cants his hips and allows his shoulders to become careless. The result isn’t as devil-may-care as he thinks; if anything, he just comes across as slutty.

“It’s been a long time.” His voice comes out raspier than he expected. He clears his throat.

“It’s funny how you can live in the same town as someone and never see them, huh?” He puffs on his cigarette, a plume of smoke curling out of the side of his mouth. His eyes never leave Liebgott’s.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

“How’s your band? You guys ready for next weekend?”

Liebgott tries not to look surprised at the acknowledgement. “Yeah. Haven’t really thought about it much, really.”

Webster’s mouth betrays a tiny grin, spotting the lie immediately. “You guys still emulating the botched stage pyrotechnics of AC/DC?”

“You guys still stealing all your material from The Cure?”

Webster lifts an eyebrow. “Let’s not start this again,” he says, dripping with pretension.

“ _You_ fucking started it,” Liebgott backfires, taking a step forward. Webster raises his eyebrows, unfazed. “And I don’t have a ‘thorn in my side’!”

“What, you think I chose to play that song because of you? That kind of presumption and arrogance is so unflattering, Liebgott.”

Liebgott fights off the red steadily flooding his cheeks. “Fuck you!”

“Glad to see you’re still the same scrappy little delinquent that I left you. Familiarity’s nice, sometimes, you know?”

“And you’re still the same conceited, hairy-chested fuck.”

Webster sighs. “Look, Liebgott. Fun as this is, it’s not the reason I called you over here.”

“Fine, then what?”

“Let’s...I need to go somewhere private. Let’s step outside.”

“Here’s fine,” Liebgott shrugs defiantly, daring Webster to challenge him.

“Joe,” Webster says, quietly this time, and Liebgott looks up. He never calls him Joe. “Please.”

“Fine...but any funny business and I scream. Not that your punk-ass is any real threat.”

Webster rolls his eyes and beckons Liebgott to follow him behind the bar. It’s much cooler outside. The breeze lifts Liebgott’s hair, while Webster’s remains determinedly plastered to his temples with sweat. He lights another cigarette, silently inviting Liebgott to take the first drag.

“So what is it?” Liebgott asks bluntly, lips closing on the end of the cigarette.

Webster’s eyes linger dazedly at his mouth before answering. “Remember Norman Dike?”

“Son of a bitch who always called me a faggot? ‘Course I fucking remember him. Beat the shit out of him at a soccer game once.” Liebgott remembers that soccer game. It was Webster’s, actually, and Liebgott came to support Malarkey, who was also on the team. It had absolutely nothing to with Webster, and the way his muscles moved under the thin jersey, or the way his mouth hung open when he was concentrating particularly hard, or the way his eyes became bluer and bluer the farther the sun sunk into the ground.

Webster smiles privately, as if he remembers too. He sobers quickly, however. “Well, I ran into him at a bar recently. This one, actually.”

“Oh yeah? How’s ol’ Dike doin’? Still a piece of shit?”

Webster nods, carefully studying a rock under his shoe. Liebgott watches him, frowning.

“He do somethin’ to you?”

Webster’s tongue flicks out at his lip, and he locks eyes with Liebgott, who wishes he could read his mind.

“He hurt you?” Liebgott asks roughly.

Webster’s eyes turn curious, and he smiles around the end of his cigarette. Liebgott realizes his voice sounds more protective than inquisitive -- and, well, fuck, maybe he doesn’t mean to correct it.

“No,” Webster says, finally. “Just threatened to out me.”

Liebgott furrows his brow. “Thought you were already out.”

“Why does everyone always say that?” Webster demands petulantly.

“‘Cause I saw you wear a beret once.”

“ _One time!_ ”

Liebgott laughs, staring for a long moment at Webster over the curling smoke of his cigarette. “Well, Web, does it really matter? If you’re outed, I mean.”

“Matters to my parents,” he says, so low it’s almost inaudible. At first Liebgott thinks he misheard.

“They don’t know?”

He shakes his head, still absorbed in kicking his rock. Liebgott inhales. “Would they care?”

Webster nods vehemently.

“Well what would they do?”

“Disown me,” he says flatly, in that monotone that Liebgott found so infuriating in high school, but now realizes was perfectly studied -- a neat little wall of deliberate indifference to hide behind.

He always thought Webster had a near-perfect life. His clothes looked expensive and new. His grades were flawless, and it seemed like he was good at practically everything he endeavored.

“What a cliche, right?” Webster says. He’s staring at Liebgott again -- so intensely that it’s almost uncomfortable.

“Yeah, it is. Good angst material though, right? Bet you got a lot of lyrical gems outta that, eh?”

Webster’s mouth forms the shape to spit out a vicious ‘fuck you’ but he stops halfway, mouth crumbling into a misshapen smile, some lost shape that hasn’t realized what it wants to be.

“Glad I could confide in you,” he says, without venom or sadness or anything; it is purely flat, perfectly clean of emotion.

Liebgott doesn’t try to chase after him. Instead, he says, “My parents don’t know either.” He tries to echo Webster’s flatness but the effect isn’t the same. It bleeds through regardless.

Webster’s hand lingers at the door. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Ma expects lots of little grandbabies. Supposed to find some girl with some big soft titties to make lots of little Liebgotts for her to fatten up.”

“Because the fattening didn’t work on you?” Webster teases, a degree too fondly.

“Hey, I eat, alright? I got high metabolism, that’s all.”

“So, what -- your mother just wouldn’t understand?”

“I don’t know. Haven’t really tried. ‘Fraid it would break her heart,” he coughs at the sentimentality, grateful that the lone streetlight is too dim to pick up his blush.

Webster’s mouth twists sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”

“Eh, it’s not your fault.” He takes in Webster’s eyes -- burning blue under the moonlight -- and his still-damp skin, the hint of stubble on his strong jaw. “Well...maybe it is.”

Webster swallows, as if reading his mind, and seems to take in Liebgott in very much the same way. He doesn’t seem to know how to respond though, and Liebgott takes some pleasure in this; for once, David Kenyon Webster is lost for words.

“Well,” Liebgott says after a long, thick silence. “What do you wanna do about Dike?”

“There isn’t much we can do. Sic Speirs on him, maybe.”

“Yeah, or Guarnere. Bet he and his buddy Joe Toye could do some damage.”

“We should get the three of them to talk business, then.” Webster says. His hand -- which has been lingering near the door for a while now, finally turns the handle. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around,” he says awkwardly, stepping inside the door.

“Yeah.” Joe nods. “Hey, Web?”

Webster flinches a little. “Yes?”

“As far as I’m concerned...your secret’s safe.”

Webster’s eyes flicker in the dark. He shuts the door behind him without another word, leaving Liebgott in the alleyway, stomping out the last embers of their shared cigarette, alone.

\--

Webster’s apartment is small but well-dressed -- an eclectic mix of modern and antique furniture, with stylishly cluttered belongings scattered all throughout his space, and an enormous wall of books that alone remains perfectly organized. There are fiction and non-fiction sections; the fiction is organized by type, such as plays, poetry, and novels. Within these components, the books are organized by author. The non-fiction is organized is much the same way, with biographies, history, science, reference books, and those things that can only be categorized as ‘personal.’ There are his old journals, his first manuscripts, and tired, torn rough drafts. Children’s books that he keeps in case he ever has a child of his own. Yearbooks.

It is the last one that he pulls from the shelf, settling onto the floor with his back against the wall: his senior yearbook, which still looks as new as it did on the day he received it. He flips deliberately to Liebgott’s picture, smirking when he finds it. The picture is clean, as he’s sure his isn’t -- he’s positive that Liebgott has defiled his with a sharpie-drawn mustache, or a graffitied penis. He never experienced the urge to reciprocate that particular breed of vandalism, and he’s glad he didn’t. The face in the yearbook and the face from the alleyway are almost exactly the same; the only person who could distinguish the minor differences is someone who has dedicated many hours to carefully studying his face. 18-year-old Liebgott looks healthier, overwhelmed by that dewy, playful youthfulness that still emanates from his every pore, even today, that fresh, young, vibrant thing that Webster can just feel on the ends of his fingertips, always resigned to merely thirsting for it because he’s so afraid to just reach out and _take_. 25-year-old Liebgott is more skeletal, but also more accessible. In high school, Webster had to constantly exercise his every faculty to convince himself of their separation. Liebgott was stupid and he was smart. Liebgott was a street kid and he came from money. Liebgott was tasteless and he was tasteful. Liebgott was less, lacking, smaller, _nothing_. He forced a running commentary of his every offense, always living in absolute terror of the day that commentary ran out of steam.

He flips to another page, dedicated to the school talent show. There was a girl who performed an atrocious ballet routine. An unfortunate, bespectacled boy from his physics class who played the paino. A pair of theatre kids who performed a horrendous one-act play written by an obnoxious try-hard from Webster’s English class. At the bottom of the page, the smallest picture is awarded to a quartet of boys with battered instruments and a clumsy attempt at a pyrotechnics display. The boys have long, grungy hair and baggy clothes emblazoned with the faces of Iggy Pop, Sid Vicious, and the like. The caption beneath the tiny photo reads:

“ _Joe Liebgott, Donald Malarkey, Skip Muck, and Bill Guarnere make up the punk group Band of Brothers. Unfortunately, their brotherly camaraderie and violent enthusiasm could not compensate for the misshapen light display, landing them in fifth place._ ”

On the opposite end of the spectrum, the center of the page is devoted entirely to a large picture of Speirs, who looks drastically different. His hair is lighter, his mouth looser, and he isn’t wearing his now-trademark scarf or his black-framed glasses. He looks lively and happy in the picture. Half of Webster’s torso makes into the photo as well -- he wears a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and his guitar is brand new then, shiny and expensive. A small interview accompanies the photo.

“ _The winner of the talent show is a band called The Last Patrol, made up of band members Ronald Speirs, vocalist and keyboardist; David Webster, guitarist and lyricist; Lewis Nixon, bassist; and Wayne Sisk, drummer. Besides winning the talent show and accepting the prize of performing at local hotspot Toccoa Bar, guitarist David Webster sees bright things in their future._

“We’ve been approached by a few labels, but we’re taking it slow. We’re all very serious about our music and our future in this business, so we don’t want to make any decisions we’ll regret. But this definitely isn’t the last of us you’ll see. We hope to be around for a long time.”

David looks at the photo of Band of Brothers again. Liebgott is smiling so big and so fiercely that it looks as if his face might split in half. He has the microphone cord wrapped around his wrist, and his body looks like it’s vibrating with energy, a perfect live wire. Guarnere and Skip press against each other back-to-back, and Malarkey wields only one drumstick, the other lost to the crowd or the stage or the ceiling beams in their high school gym. They look like they’re having the time of their lives.

He continues flipping, landing on a picture of the baseball team. Speirs and Lipton stand next to each other -- this was before they were dating, but you can see the imminence of a relationship written all of their posture, in their touching shoulders and the protective hand Speirs keeps on Lipton’s arm, whose usual deep, sad-eyed calm is animated by a small, content smile.

There’s a picture of Liebgott and his friends outside during lunch, sitting in a circle at a table while one of them -- Skip, it looks like -- stands on top of the table with his arms outstretched. There’s no telling what he’s doing but by the looks of hysterical laughter on their faces, it must be entertaining and most likely against the rules.

There’s a picture of Winters and Nixon in a Biology class. Webster knows they had already been together, albeit secretly, for three years at this point. It looks as if they’re dissecting something -- Winters prods at the unknown object of interest with determined apathy, while Nixon laughs at him, clearly not persuaded by his apparent indifference.

There’s a picture of Webster in newspaper, alone at a computer, laying out a page with his tongue between his teeth. He’s always hated that picture. He asked a girl friend of his on yearbook to take it out but she refused, arguing that _it shows you in your element, at your best, working diligently alone_.

Almost directly under this picture of Webster is a picture of Liebgott in P.E, surrounded by friends playing intramural basketball. Liebgott is hunched over the basketball, protective, wearing a huge, careless grin, while his friends crowd around him, playfully predatory.

On the next page there’s a picture of Norman Dike, who was on Student Council with Webster. His hair is askew, and his face bears a medium-sized shiner on his cheek. Webster remembers the day that photo was taken. It was one of the last extracurricular shots the yearbook took, only about a month prior to graduation. Webster had found Dike and Liebgott fighting outside the auditorium. Liebgott had the upper hand, then, but his lip was split and his face was red, and Dike had the meanest grin on his face, even as he laid on the ground after Webster kicked him in the gut.

‘ _You guys hit pretty hard, for a pair of faggots.'_

‘Hey, Webster, come to defend your boyfriend?’

‘You still fucking that little Jew?’ Webster hears Dike’s voice like he’s in the room with him, whispering into his ear. He shudders and closes the book with a frown, not even bothering to return it to the organized haven of his bookshelf.

\--

Liebgott pretends that he can’t remember the one night stand. Malarkey always pesters him for details, but Liebgott assures him there’s nothing remarkable to tell. He’s a good liar.

It was the night of their graduation, and George Luz predictably threw one of his huge parties in celebration. Liebgott, however, was late.

By the time he finally arrived, it was already growing stale. Everyone was already drunk, save for one person, whose sharp, sober blue eyes seem to find Liebgott’s without even trying. 

“Who invited you?” Webster intones, sidling up next to Liebgott as he fishes in the refrigerator for an unopened beer.

“Jolly ol’ St. Luz himself,” Liebgott says, standing up to look Webster in the eye. He tries not to flinch at the proximity. “Come to spill another drink on me?”

“I’ve told you a hundred times, _liebling_. It was an accident.”

“Fuck that,” Liebgott snaps, “you hated me the minute you saw me.”

He can still feel Webster’s eyes on him as he stomps away, elbowing the fridge shut with a harsh slam.

There are footsteps behind him. “I don’t hate you.”

“Fuck you.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Why can’t you take a hint and leave me the fuck alone?” Liebgott shoves Webster in the chest. His back hits the wall.

“Why were you late?” Webster asks quietly. Liebgott glares at him before stalking away down the hallway, kicking the back door open and heading over to the pool house. There are pockets of people standing around the pool, laughing, or swimming, but Webster ignores them as he chases after Liebgott.

He grabs his wrist, spinning him around; Liebgott throws off his arm with a scowl but not quickly enough to hide his face. Webster corners him against the wall of the pool house, hidden from view.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Why the fuck do you care?”

Webster doesn’t have an answer. “Was it Dike?”

“Maybe it was, so what?”

“Well why did he do this?”

“Why does he ever do it? Who the fuck knows -- probably ‘cause he’s stuck in the goddamn closet and I’m not!” Liebgott snarls. The lights in the pool rinse his face in sea-green, color rising and falling in little waves as the people behind them create ripples in the water. Webster swallows.

“Come inside, I’ll clean you up,” Webster says. 

Liebgott looks at him like he’s grown an extra head. “You’re outta your fuckin’ mind.”

“Fine, bleed to death, see if I care.” This should be the part where he leaves Liebgott standing alone against the wall, but he can’t quite bring himself to move. 

Liebgott sighs and pushes Webster away, but surprisingly opens the door to the pool house.

“Ladies first,” Liebgott says, gesturing inside. Webster rolls his eyes but obliges. The pool house is completely empty and pitch-black. His hands move along the walls, searching for a switch. He finally comes across a lamp, which at least gives him enough light to see.

“Here, sit down,” Webster says, gesturing to a wicker-backed couch, while he heads to the kitchen for a rag and some water. When he returns, Liebgott is still standing by the door.

“Why did you even come?” Webster asks flatly, walking towards Liebgott, who stands frozen against the door. It’s almost scary to Webster -- how dark his eyes are, how little he reveals -- but he comes closer anyways. “Why not just go home?”

Liebgott doesn’t answer, swinging Webster around so that the door pushes uncomfortable against his back, and before he can protest or blink or even think, his mouth is covering Webster’s, searing hot and near-painful, teeth sinking into Webster’s lip as if he’s been waiting to do so for weeks, his hands running over Webster’s face and hair and body as if he can’t decide which he wants to hold more. When he finds his wrist, he yanks the wet rag out of Webster’s hand and throws it the floor with a wet smack. 

Webster, not one to be bested, reciprocates violently as soon as he gets his wits about him. He wraps his hand around Liebgott’s neck, rubbing his thumb over the constantly-bobbing adam’s apple until it’s raw, devouring his mouth, despite the cut. Webster wrenches one of his arms behind his back and spins him around, face to the wall. 

“I don’t want to talk about this,” he pants into Liebgott’s ear, “I don’t ever want to talk about this.”

“Then stop fucking talking,” Liebgott snaps, allowing his head to be pulled back as Webster covers every inch of jaw with kisses and sharp, painful bites that make Liebgott hiss and whimper and almost fall to his knees if it weren’t for the hand clenching down on his wrist.

He shakes himself out of Webster’s grip easily and tears his shirt off. Webster mimics him obediently, ripping off his pants until they’re both facing each other, completely naked.

“You’re even scrawnier than I imagined you.”

“How is it even possible for one boy to have so much hair?”

“You look like a little boy.”

“Cute love handles.”

“Somehow though, you’re just so sexy, I don’t understand--”

“Your cock is fuckin’ huge.”

Webster lifts Liebgott up so his back is to the wall, and Liebgott has no choice but to wrap his legs around his waist. Liebgott draws two of Webster’s fingers greedily into his mouth, and Webster searches out Liebgott’s entrance when he’s done, holding him up with one arm and using the wall as support.

“Been workin’ out?” Liebgott says crudely, mouth so obscenely red and swollen that it almost looks painful. Webster kisses him hard, bruising him more, and in one careful push, he replaces his fingers with his dick, swallowing all of Liebgott’s whimpers with wet, open-mouthed kisses, trailing across his jaw and down his neck when the groans relax. It’s like Webster knows the precise moment he’s hit his prostate because his eyes turn dark and lecherous and his smile filthy as Liebgott throws his head back, fingers tearing viciously into Webster’s hair. Neither of them breathe a word; Liebgott bites at Webster’s shoulder and cants his hips forward furiously, demanding more. He grabs Webster’s hand and folds it around his dick.

They come at nearly the same time, Liebgott’s splashing all over Webster’s stomach and his own. When Webster feels it’s safe, he drops Liebgott to the ground, who stumbles shakily over to a couch and lies down. 

Their eyes meet in the dark, the silence between them writhing with a thousand, muddled thoughts -- Webster dresses and leaves before he dares figure them out, leaving Liebgott naked and alone in the strange dark.

\--

It’s never taken Liebgott longer than five minutes to write a song. He figures if the song wants to be born, it would fall into place organically, no force required.

He sits with his guitar in his lap and fingers through different chord progressions until he lands on one that feels right. He’ll play them through and hum a melody until the melody takes shape in words. He usually sketches out the barest of lyrical skeletons beforehand and fleshes it out as he finds the melody, scribbling them onto whatever scrap of paper is nearest. He relies on the basic songwriting blueprint -- verse, bridge, chorus, verse, chorus -- because that’s what he knows. Sometimes it’s completely free verse.

Today he’s writing and he can’t get a certain image out of his head. Webster’s face -- the sharp wit of those blue, blue eyes and the pink, wry twist of his mouth and the crop of scruff that always clings so determinedly to the strong slope of his jaw -- standing out amongst the crowd at one of their very first shows back in high school, when they were still Band of Brothers, a motley little crew of miscreants that no one took seriously.

Liebgott remembers all the times he caught Webster staring -- his eyes always on him, from the back of the class or in the hallways or from the audience. He thought it was creepy, then, but a tiny part of him also thought it strangely flattering. A deeper part of him knew that when Webster stared at him, it wasn’t just an obsessive hatred like he pretended. When he insulted him, it meant something else entirely. When they finally fucked, it wasn’t empty, cavalier relief but a foregone conclusion, a calculated explosion that was orchestrated from the very beginning.

Their skin is only ragged now, rubbed raw after all these years, chafing angrily at every mention, every newspaper article, every song lyric mistakenly heard on the radio. They’ve become threadbare, dragged over their own stubborn feet and their own stinging wounds for years now and Liebgott’s tired. Deja vu is exhausting. It’s against every fiber of his being to break first but maybe this time, breaking would be more like winning, after all. 

\--

The weekend finally arrives. 

The Last Patrol has their sound check before Currahee to ensure that they have enough time. Everything goes smoothly enough, until Currahee shows up half an hour early to watch. Webster acknowledges them with a nod and nothing else, shooting a glare at Lipton for good measure, who just looks at him helplessly. 

Nixon immediately goes over to greet the band when their check is over. Not to be outdone in a display of good breeding, Webster soon joins him, sidling up next to Liebgott, who stiffens considerably. Liebgott’s wearing a sleeveless shirt that makes his arms look especially long and sinewy, but it’s his face that really seems to take Webster’s breath away. It’s hard to define what precisely it is that makes Liebgott’s face so utterly attractive to him -- perhaps it’s the way it wears cruelty. The meanness he puts on is always in direct conflict with how inherently pretty his face is, with his pale skin, the sharp, sunken cheekbones, the dark, obscene mouth and those sharp, piercing eyes. The delicate balance between the invincible thing he wants to be and the soft thing that he is, the way he fights with nature to become untouchable -- when all it does is make Webster want to touch him more.

“You guys ready?” He smiles. 

Malarkey nods so enthusiastically that Webster decides it must be sarcastic. “Oh, yeah!”

Webster’s smile falls a little. “So. Currahee. How’d you guys decide on that name? Didn’t you used to be Band of Brothers?”

“Yeah, but...none of us are actually brothers. It felt tacky,” Muck says seriously, stuffing a handful of olives into his mouth.

“Oh. I thought you guys were going for irony, or something.”

Skip just blinks at him.

“So what does Currahee mean?”

Liebgott speaks up, licking his lips so slowly that Webster swears it must be deliberately teasing. “It means ‘We Stand Alone Together.’”

“Oh? In what language?”

“Cherokee.”

Nixon almost spits out his beer laughing. “Cherokee? Who the fuck is Cherokee?”

“No one’s Cherokee, we just liked the name!” Guarnere says defensively, and Nixon throws his hands up in surrender.

“Fine, okay, great -- Currahee, wow. So what is your music like nowadays?”

“I don’t know,” Liebgott shrugs. “Good.”

Webster and Nixon smile privately to each other. “Just...good?”

“Well, I don’t know how to describe it!” He says defensively.

“Alright...that’s okay, that’s okay,” Webster soothes him, exceedingly patronizing. “Well, we can’t wait to hear it!” 

Liebgott scowls at him, and Webster feels a twinge of regret. He probably could have hidden his sarcasm better.

“C’mon guys, let’s do our sound check,” Liebgott orders, shooting one last, acerbic look at Webster over his shoulder. The rest follow him, looking either indifferent or way too interested in the strange tension that’s arisen. 

Five minutes later, there’s an over-mic’d howl and a clash of out-of-tune guitars. Webster leans against the bar counter, settling into watch with a small smile. Liebgott’s wearing the same Alice Cooper t-shirt that he used to wear in high school and shorts that cut off at the knee that are almost sinfully tight; it’s like remembering why he originally fucked him in the first place, until Webster tunes into what he’s listening to. Terrible, so-called punk music with positively disgraceful lyrics and a lead singer who voice is really only fit for drunken karaoke and maybe -- on the rarest of occasions -- talking dirty. They truly sound awful. With some help, maybe, they could get their act together. Their enthusiasm partially makes up for it, and Webster can admit that their particular style of music is more about an attitude than technique anyways, but for this show, Webster feels responsible for them. 

When the song ends, Webster directs the sound technician, “Lower the volume on the singer’s mic, and less reverb on the amps.”

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Liebgott asks, straight into the mic. 

“Turn off his mic,” Webster orders.

“I said,” Liebgott shouts, jumping off the stage and stomping over to Webster, “what the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?”

“Helping you,” Webster says shortly, drawing his face much too close to Liebgott’s for emphasis. Liebgott scowls in that pretty way that sharpens the cut of his cheekbones.

“Well I don’t fuckin’ need your help. This is the way we’ve always done it.”

“And how far has that gotten you?” Webster asks, leaning down so he meets Liebgott right at eye level. “Listen, Joe. I’ve had a record deal since the day I graduated high school. That little show I played in this very bar last week? We had trucks full of kids drive from thirteen hours away when they found out about this little show, just to see us. We’re practically legends in this town. Fuck, I practically own this place. And you? Well, you’re in the same exact spot as you were back in high school. Joe Liebgott, the little punk that no one took seriously, too busy misbehaving or fucking around in your band that was more like one long, pathetic prank instead of the real deal. You want people to take you seriously? Listen to me.”

Liebgott licks his lips and puts a patronizing hand on Webster’s shoulder, squeezing tightly. Webster refuses to wince. “Listen, _Web_. I don’t need people to take me seriously. Unlike you, I put stock in what I think of myself instead of relyin’ on other people to do it for me. ‘s far as I’m concerned, I get to make music with my best friends everyday. Sure, I gotta have a couple of other jobs on the side, so what? I don’t need to be famous. I don’t need everybody’s fuckin’ approval. And you? Mostly I just feel fuckin’ sorry for you. You know what, I didn’t want to play this gig to begin with because I hate your fuckin’ guts and your attitude and everything you stand for. But now? I think I’m gonna. ‘Cause to be honest with you? This place could really use a little Joey Liebgott-style misbehavior. I just wish you’d get the fuckin’ stick out your ass. Maybe then you could even join in.”

Webster opens his mouth to argue, but Liebgott cuts him off with just a look. “I know you’re scared of confronting what you are but Web, this is fuckin’ serious now. You can’t live your whole life like an uptight piece of shit just because your scared of what people’ll think of you. It doesn’t _matter_. Why the fuck do you think it matters? Have a little more goddamn self-respect. Once you get that, other people just follow. Trust me. I know what the fuck I’m talkin’ about.”

A muscle jumps in Webster’s jaw and his mouth tightens, fighting to gape open in shock but he refuses to let anything other than apathy onto his face. Hundreds of words try to make purchase in his throat; _fuck you, how dare you_ , anything, but in the end what it comes down to is _fuck me_. How is it that the little shit that Webster should be least intimidated by -- the scrawniest, most inferior little thing the world could possibly dig up -- is always the one to make Webster lose his words? 

Liebgott walks away to clear the stage and Webster curses to himself. It’s high school again; Webster wins and charms and succeeds and no one calls his bluff or dares to touch his heart. Then the bratty little Jew with the mean smile and the bony wrists and the pretty face and the stupid Alice Cooper t-shirt comes along and Webster loses. Again. 

No, Webster decides. This is the last fucking time.

\--

Norman Dike lives in a one-room apartment downtown next to an abandoned gas station and a McDonald’s. 

He isn’t hard to find. Webster raps on the door with a heavy fist. A minute later, Dike appears in the doorway in a half-open bathrobe and a bowl of cereal in his hand.

He opens his mouth like he wants to speak but David cuts him off before he gets the chance.

“Go to the press.”

Dike just gapes. “What?”

“Go to the press. Tell them I’m gay. Hell -- tell that I’m still fucking that little Jew if you want. I don’t care. I want you to.”

Dike splutters like a fish. “Why?”

David ignores him. “You know what? Save it, actually. Why make you do the work? You’re obviously so comfortable sitting on your ass. I’ll do it myself.” 

He kicks Dike’s door closed and returns to his car, dialing Lipton’s number.

“Hey, Lip?”

“Yes?” Lipton asks hesitantly. “Is everything okay? Shouldn’t you be at the bar?”

“It’s fine, the show doesn’t start for another two hours.”

“Shouldn’t you be off...I don’t know, brooding somewhere then?”

Webster sighs into the phone. “Look, Lip, I have something I need to do. I want the press to run a story about me.”

“...okay? Like a promotional sort of deal?”

“Sort of. It will certainly garner attention, perhaps some unwanted.”

“Alright, what is it?”

“Tell them the guitarist of The Last Patrol is gay and he’s fucking the lead singer of Currahee.”

“Now why would I do that?”

“I don’t know...make some extra cash for the tip, finally have enough money to buy Speirs a ring, fuck, I don’t know, just do it.”

He can practically hear Lipton blushing on the other end of the phone. “David, this could be bad...”

“Of course it could.”

“What about your parents?”

The smile that breaks on Webster’s face is clean, a smile that isn’t patronizing or sarcastic or secretive; it’s clean of all impure intentions, all secrets, all ulterior motivations. “What about my parents?”

“Okay, if this is what you really want...”

“It’s what I want.”

“I can probably get it in tomorrow’s paper.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you tonight.”

He snaps his phone shut and braces himself on the hood of his car. His hands are trembling, in the best of ways.

\--

Liebgott sings shirtless. Sweat runs down his chest and his abdomen and his back in skinny rivulets, slicking him up like Webster’s most embarrassing sex dream. He has more energy than his body can contain, screaming into the mic until he’s red in the face, crashing to his knees and singing to the floor, diving into the crowd with his arms splayed out like he’s strung on a cross. 

The audience absolutely devours it. If Webster said he was surprised, he’d be lying.

They don’t sound good. They’ll never sound good. But Liebgott was right; they’re misbehaving and it’s working. They’re not following the rules. Their guitars are out of tune; Skip knocked over half of Malarkey’s drum set when he tried to jump on top of him. Guarnere broke two strings and potentially a finger and kept playing anyways. Liebgott kicked in a speaker, got an audience member thrown out, and laid on the stage rolling around in his own sweat for five entire minutes, just howling into the mic and making obscene pelvic movements. 

“Well, Nix. This might actually be a hard act to follow,” Webster whispers, and it isn’t sarcastic.

Nixon laughs. “Whatever, dude. Just get wasted. It’s easier.”

They have one song left.

“David Webster,” Liebgott slurs into the mic. “This next song is for David Webster. Does everybody in this room know him? They should. They really fuckin’ should.”

Webster swallows and hides his face in Nixon’s armpit, despite the fact that it smells like a burrito. He misses half the song because his ear is swallowed in Nixon’s sweaty side, but what he does hear is barely discernible to begin with. He knows he rhymes ‘fight’ and ‘bite.’ He’s also fairly sure that he hears the phrase ‘hatefuck,’ though that could have been ‘suck,’ not that that’s any better. Also ‘unconscious,’ and potentially ‘knife.’ David frowns. Liebgott could either want to fuck him or kill him. 

When the song ends, Webster stomps over to the stage. 

“One second,” Liebgott says, throwing back a giant swig of water. “What?”

“What the fuck was that song about?”

“What, the one I just played?”

“Of course the one you just played.”

“Well, you.” He scowls at Webster like it should be obvious.

“Okay, but...could you, I don’t know, read me the lyrics or something? I couldn’t really figure out what was going on.”

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot.”

“I’m sorry, but how is it my fault that you shriek instead of sing?”

Liebgott offers him his bitchiest expression. “It’s about high school, dipshit.”

“What about it?”

“I don’t know...lots of shit! Everything!”

“You fit your entire high school career into one song?”

“Okay, so it’s about...I don’t know, the band and stuff!”

“Which one?”

“What do you mean which one...this one, fuckwit!”

“I happen to know that you were also in a KISS tribute band.”

Liebgott turns white, but recovers quickly. “You stalkin’ me?”

“No, just disguising my feelings with mockery.”

“Well, I happen to know you were the number one poetry contributor to the school Lit Mag.”

Webster narrows his eyes. “You know what? I was going to apologize for throwing bottle caps at you during your shows but I think you just handed me a reason not to, so thank you.”

“You fucker.”

“That’s still not as bad as when we threw a baby bottle filled with red Kool-aid at you when you sang ‘Beth.’”

“You fuckin’ asshole. It took weeks to get that stain outta my clothes.”

“You deserved it for defiling my ears with that filth.”

“No one made you go!”

“Of course I had to go, I could never miss out on an opportunity to take out my troves of teenage angst on some lesser species.”

“You know what? People thought we were the shit okay, I got laid by the hour after those gigs.”

“Desperate sluts don’t count.”

“Hey, what about you, huh? You fucked me.”

Webster flinches. It’s strange to hear it out loud. “I fucked you out of pity,” he says hoarsely.

“You fucked me because I’m adorable and I sing like a demi-god.”

“Wrong. You’re scrawny and you sing like what Johnny Rotten would sound like if he ate a fence of barbed wire and then vomited all over a microphone.”

“Well you had a ridiculously hairy chest for a teenage boy and you came in like, three minutes.”

“...I was trying to get it over with.”

Liebgott bites on a smile. “You loved it.”

“Wrong again. You’re on a roll tonight, _liebling_.”

Webster has stepped in much too close. He’s hardly a breath away. In fact their lips are practically touching. Liebgott’s eyes can’t help but flicker between his eyes and his mouth. “We could do it again.” It comes out without even thinking.

“Do what?” Webster swallows, but he doesn’t move away. 

Liebgott smirks, searching Webster’s eyes for any hint of unreturned feelings. He finds nothing but yearning. “Fuck.”

Webster ducks his head, and Liebgott swears his cheeks are a little redder. Webster fights off a smile, but it remains in his eyes, even as he chides, “If my life has really plummeted that depressingly far down hill that you are the only offer I receive tonight then yes, I suppose we could do that.” 

“Great. My apartment, 11 o’clock.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Cool, see you then,” Liebgott winks, disappearing into the crowd with his arm thrown over Malarkey’s shoulder.

Webster watches him leave, breathing for the first time in what seems like hours. It feels like the first freedom he’s had in years.

His eyes never leave Liebgott’s for the entirety of his set. It’s the best show they’ve had in years.

\--

At 11:15, Liebgott hears a knock on his door.

“Were you serious before, about me coming over, because I took it seriously--” Webster babbles the minute the door opens, looking flushed and breathless. His eyes look brighter than they have any right to be, and Liebgott stares into them like he’s found something.

He pulls Webster inside and has him pressed up against the door almost before it even shuts. Webster’s mouth falls slack against his, caught by surprise but soon returns the kiss with fervor, burying one fist into Liebgott’s hair -- which slips through his hand like water -- and holding him by the waist with the other. They stand for a moment against the door, foreheads pressed together, catching their breath.

“You’re late,” Liebgott breathes, and he feels Webster smile against the side of his jaw, which turns into a quick bite. 

“Only by a little bit,” Webster whispers, mouth moving softly over the red indent on Liebgott’s jaw.

Doesn’t feel like a little bit, Liebgott can’t help but think. It isn’t 15 minutes, it’s years. Years stolen by stubborn hatred and prejudice and fear. Liebgott runs his fingers over Webster’s new calluses, the worry lines around his mouth, the scar on his shoulder that Liebgott wasn’t there for. Webster’s fingers mimic his movements with Liebgott’s shorter hair, his thinner mouth, his bonier wrists, and the scar on his neck. He folds their fingers together and feels the heat between them; hands that heal and hands that bruise.

“I don’t even know why I’m here, you’re wearing a goddamn Alice Cooper t-shirt -- this goes against everything I believe in...” Webster whispers.

“Shut the hell up and fuck me,” Liebgott orders. 

“Bossy,” Webster says, rubbing his thumb along Liebgott’s mouth. “I want you to suck me first. I’ve waited too fucking long.”

Liebgott raises an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah?”

Webster moves in to mouth at the crook of his neck, tongue dipping into the hollow of Liebgott’s collarbone and biting down on the slim curve of his shoulder. 

Liebgott drops to his knees and undoes Webster’s belt. He’s not wearing underwear. “Going commando?” His smile is filthy.

“Oh stop, it’s not like it was pre-emptive. I always play shows commando.”

“Your fans know that?”

“Only the groupies.”

“Oh, please, you don’t have groupies.”

“Sure we do. They’re just not skinny or Jewish enough for me.”

Liebgott just bites into Webster’s hip as response, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses down his flesh until he reaches his dick.

A car horn screams outside when Liebgott finally puts his cock in his mouth. There is a thick wash of light from a nearby lamp that rinses Liebgott’s face in gold and shadows; Webster tucks his thumb into the hollow Liebgott’s cheek makes when he sucks, pressing hard enough to maybe hurt, but Liebgott doesn’t complain, just glares up at him in warning. He traces the underside of Webster’s cock with his tongue then closes his mouth around the head, and Webster tangles his fingers in Liebgott’s hair, gently guiding him. When Liebgott’s eyes meet his -- deliberate and dark and sweet and heavy -- Webster feels a pressure mount quickly. His skin feels tighter, hotter, and his knees feel weaker, like they want to collapse. Liebgott sucks harder, head bobbing rhythmically, his eyes never leaving Webster’s and all of a sudden the pressure shivers at the cusp of a breaking point. “Stop, fuck, _stop_ , or I’ll come,” Webster warns, and Liebgott slides off his cock with an obscene pop.

“Fuck me,” Liebgott repeats, his voice absolutely wrecked, and there is no room for argument. He pushes Webster down onto his couch and straddles his hips. Webster drinks in the sight of Liebgott sucking his own fingers into his mouth then reaching back and pressing them inside himself. 

“You have a condom?” Webster asks shakily.

“Look in the drawer,” Liebgott directs, fingers sliding out of himself. Webster reaches back and feels around for the packaging. He finds one eventually, and quickly rips it open and slides it onto himself.

“You ready?” 

“Is that serious question?” Liebgott raises his eyebrows. He braces his hands on Webster’s shoulders and lowers himself down.

“Careful,” Webster warns, holding Liebgott by his hips to guide him down slowly. 

Liebgott rolls his eyes but allows Webster to help, wincing a little when he’s finally seated. 

“You okay? Does it hurt?”

Liebgott just leans down and grabs either side of Webster’s face, kissing him possessively. He lifts himself up again and then back down, harder this time, and Webster cants his hips up to meet his thrusts. They build a careful rhythm, Liebgott breathing curses into the corner of Webster’s mouth, catching his groans. 

“Harder,” Liebgott orders, and Webster obeys without question, taking a firm hold of Liebgott’s hips and thrusting so hard that Liebgott’s head falls back, biting down on a scream. Webster’s mouth latches onto Liebgott’s neck as he continues to pound into him.

“Shit,” Liebgott growls, fingers digging into Webster’s scalp as he holds on for dear life. “ _Fuck, fuck, fuck_...” he cries out, and his body convulses as his come covers Webster’s stomach.

Webster throws Liebgott onto his back, changing positions quickly as he continues to pound into him. Liebgott squirms under him, and Webster’s grabs onto his arms, holding him still and burying his face into Liebgott’s shoulder as he rides out his orgasm. 

They stare at each other, flushed. 

“That was the worst orgasm I’ve ever had,” Webster says breathlessly.

“You are a terrible fuck,” Liebgott returns with a grin.

Webster leans down and cups his face in his hands, feeling soft cheek give under the press of his thumb. He kisses Liebgott slowly this time, a little more gently, smiling when he feels Liebgott’s hands folding together at the nape of his neck. 

“So what’s for breakfast tomorrow, liebling?”

“...you fucker.” 

\--

Webster is rudely awakened at 6 AM by “Don’t Stand So Close to Me.” It’s his Speirs’ ringtone.

He gently moves Liebgott’s head off his chest and grabs his phone off the nightstand with a scowl. “What the fuck do you want at this ungodly hour?”

“Look at the morning paper.”

“...what?”

“Page 11, left corner.”

“I’ll fucking kill you for this...” Webster grumbles, kicking the sheets off and stumbling over to Liebgott’s front door. The paper is sitting on the welcome mat. He grabs it quickly and lays it out over the kitchen counter, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder as he flips to page 11.

There, in the left corner, bears the headline: “Local musician comes out of the closet.” 

“Oh.”

“Care to explain yourself?”

“Yeah, hang on.”

Webster skims over the article. 

“ _Our town’s own David Webster, of popular local band The Last Patrol, recently came out of the closet, joining the ranks of hundreds of other gay musicians._

“He said he finally felt ready. I’m not sure what the push was, but he seems much happier with his new freedom,” Band manager Carwood Lipton said.

He has even found love in other local musician, Joseph Liebgott, singer of Currahee, another local band who recently opened for the Last Patrol at a concert at Toccoa Bar. Both bands...”

Webster tears his eyes away from the article. “Yeah, I might have told Lipton to give this story to the local paper.”

“Why?” Speirs demands.

“Because it was going to happen anyways, thanks to Norman Dike, and I figured I might as well do it myself.”

“And did you ever think about what this might mean for the band?”

“Sure I did. And then I realized I didn’t give a shit. I’m tired of being worried of what everyone might think all the time. I’m tired of being so fucking scared of tarnishing my precious reputation. I’m tired of my parents, I’m tired of the pretentious bullshit, and I’m tired of not respecting myself enough to tell the goddamn truth. I’m gay. You know that, my friends know that, I know that, and it’s time for everyone else to know too. Not because I’m obligated to tell them, because I’m not, it’s my fucking business, but because it doesn’t matter. I’m sick of letting this one little thing hold me back. Admitting the truth about my sexuality has made me feel more free than I’ve felt in years. I feel good, Speirs. I feel really, really good about this.”

Webster hears a cough behind him. He whips around, caught off guard, and finds Liebgott leaning against the door frame with mussed-up hair, a sleep-lazy grin, and more pride in his eyes than Webster’s ever seen. He returns it, and beckons Liebgott over with a wave of his hand. 

“Okay,” Speirs says. “I’m happy to hear it.”

“Me too,” Webster says, holding his arm out so Liebgott can press into his side. Liebgott kisses him immediately, too rough for this early in the morning but Webster isn’t complaining.

“David, are you...where the hell are you?” Speirs asks.

“Speirs, I’m going to have to call you back.” Webster hangs up and lets his phone drop as Liebgott pins him to the counter.

“ _Has found love in other local musician, Joseph Liebgott_?” Liebgott reads over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

“That...might have been a little pre-emptive, but--”

“Shut the fuck up. I’m ready for round two.”

“But I’m hungry, you said you’d make breakfast--”

Webster’s complaints die in his throat as Liebgott’s mouth attaches itself to his chest, teeth scraping over a nipple. “You’re my fuckin’ breakfast.” 

“Oh.” 

Once again, little Joey Liebgott is the one who makes Webster lose his words.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic might be familiar for a lot of you if you know from me livejournal, where I posted this ages ago, but now I'm trying to put all my old LJ fic on ao3. I'm also on tumblr @theteapirate. The title of the fic is from a Spoon song by the same name; if you don't know it, check it out because it's pretty perfect for Webgott.


End file.
